


The Wolf at the End of the World

by cara marie (genusshrike)



Category: Norse Mythology
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-27
Updated: 2006-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genusshrike/pseuds/cara%20marie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragnarok is here, and Sol is on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf at the End of the World

At the end of the world, Sol runs from the wolf. Through city street and forest dark she runs, and the world is without a light. She sees the moon is gone and wonders where her brother is. Where she used to shine, the sky glows with a half-cast green, and she burns like a light. The wolf does not sleep then, but grows weary as she at night; still she knows it gets ever closer.

The machines have all stopped. Sol must run on her own two feet, kipping in abandoned houses. She doesn't know where the people have gone. But then, she's always been lonely.

One night, tramping through the rain so that there's not even the half-day with which to divine time, but knowing she is wearying, Sol spots a light, high up in a broken glass window. At this point she thinks not how this sign of life is curious in the emptiness of Midgard, but takes it as hope she may be able to slough off her sopping clothes and be warm; she has run far enough tonight.

The door is heavy but she pushes it open; the elevator won't work so she climbs the stairs up to the third floor where the light glows. She wonders if it is tonight the wolf will catch her. She wonders this every night, and knows not why she continues to run.

She doesn't know, just opens the door, regretting suddenly how she drips on the carpet. The room is not well lit, but many candles glow about it, and there is a man on an old sagging sofa staring at her with wide-open eyes. They are all she can see of his face, for he is veiled in black.

"I thought all the people had gone," Sol said, and she has to lean against the door she's closed behind her.

The man's eyes soften. He is lean, dressed in jeans and a black shirt. She wonders giddily why he is veiled, and clutches on the door handle.

"You're wet," he says. Sol nods, wonders briefly what she looks like, if she should be ashamed. She touches the ragged, dripping edges of her hair, shorn off when she grew tired of it catching in branches and tangling.

"Follow me," she man says, and he leads her into a bathroom, lightless so he takes a candle with him. He kneels down and pulls a bunch of towels out the cupboard. "I'll get you some clothes," he says, and she nods again. Sol does not waste time; she strips off her clothes and drops them in the bathtub. The towels are blessedly fluffy, and it's a delight to towel herself and squeeze out what's left of her hair.

She realises her error when she hears the man stop short in the doorway. She glances at him, does not bother to cover herself. He gazes at her like he is trying to forget something. It doesn't seem a bad idea.

She takes the clothes - another shirt and a pair of slack black trousers - and she dresses in front of him. He doesn't move, but leans against the door-frame.

She doesn't feel awkward until she is dressed, in this stranger's clothes, in this stranger's flat.

"Why aren't you gone?" she asks. He shrugs.

"I was waiting."

Sol looks at him. "For me?" He nods, and she might melt.

He turns back to the lounge, and she follows him, shivering now. He doesn't stop, though she's tempted to sink into the sofa, but opens another door. She walks over, sees the bed inside, and sighs.

"Thank you," she says, and not specifically to the man standing next to her. She cocks her head to look at him. She can't tell his mind, with his face veiled. She wants to ask his name but she is shivering, so instead she just goes over and crawls into the bed. It's light and cozy about her, and she could wish her hair drier but she scarcely has time, so quickly does she fall asleep.

It's still dark when she wakes, because it's always dark now. The wolf hunted her in her dreams and she wakes with such a start, knowing she must get up and move on. She runs into the lounge, but the man is there and motions for her to stop. She does so; he has a gun. She wonders if he might shoot her, if she could possibly die like that. But he is looking out the window, and her skin is prickling. He raises the gun. And fires.

She flinches, but runs when he beckons her. Out on the street, the wolf lies, it's leg matted and bloody. She is sure it looks right at her before somehow getting up, stumbling away.

"My wolf," she says, and it is barely a breath. "I didn't think it could be hurt."

"You were always running," the man says. She looks at him, her eyes big, and thinks he looks lonely. "You slept in," he said.

"It's a good bed."

His eyes look like he smiles. He leans in, kisses her through his veil.

It could have been innocent. It could've been. But Sol grabs his hand and shifts the veil with her other so she kisses him straight on the lips, and he leans into her a long while before they separate.

"Let's go to bed," she says, and her husky voice surprises her, as does the way she walks there with them, and they fall into each other.

Afterwards he brings her lunch, fruit salad, and they sit on the floor of the lounge and eat it together. She feels giddy with this freedom; she should be running, but instead she's here, stretching out her fingers and toes and basking in the warmth of companionship.

There is a garden a few houses down the road, where once the neighbourhood co-opted but now only the man tends. That's why they're alive, when all else is dying. But then, they are dying too, and soon, soon.

The man never takes his veil off, except in the dark. She traces his face with her fingers and wonders why he will not show it. She doesn't know his name, and he's never asked hers. They don't need names, and speak rarely.

The wolf will get her like this, when she is comfortable. He will heal and come catch her. It niggles at the back of her mind.

She realises one day that she is pregnant, and the knowledge strikes fear into her again. She clutches at her man when she wakes that morning, and wishes she could see her face. She knows he has his reasons, and she dares not ask. She fears it would break the spell. The wolf would hunt her again. And how will she run so fleetly when there is a baby unfurling inside her?

When she can feel the curve of her tummy pushing outwards, she tells him. His eyes darked; he looks away. For an instant she thinks no, this will break the spell, this will send him away.

He walks from her, stands by the window, staring out into the half-light.

That night she is sure he calls her name. She lies in the dark, sure she has never spoken it. And suddenly she thinks maybe he is not a stranger.

It is a small matter to slip out of bed when he asleep, to trace her way through the flat to find candle and matches, to light the candle, to stand in the doorway with its light flickering like her heart.

She almost drops it when she sees his face, but instead blows it out. She places it down, hold her hands up to her eyes. She doesn't go back to bed - she sits on the couch and stays awake all night.

He comes in, and the first hint of light. She glances at him to see he is veiled still.

"Take it off," she says.

His eyes widen. He shakes his head.

"Take it off, Mani," she says, and cannot look at him. He is silent. She can imagine the horror on his face though.

She hears him sit down against the wall, and she sees when she glances over that he has removed the veil. Her fingers ache.

"Mani," she says, and looks out the window. "Oh, Mani."

She knows that day the wolf is well again.


End file.
